The Necromancer
by RyansKid
Summary: A lone necromancer rides across the desert. Hunted by the Lich Kings Scourge and by all the free peoples of the world, he rides. R
1. Chapter 1

Cold.

A God awful cold that comes from the blackest part of your soul and wraps its chilling fingers around your heart so it can wrench it back into the blackness. An overwhelming feeling of hopelessness that seems like all in the world that is good, and warm, and full of life will be extinguished. That is what it feels like to be in the presence of the Lich King.

But it has been many moons since the necromancer has had to endure the stare of the foul thing that sits upon the Frozen Throne. Long has it been since he held court with Ner'zuhl, gazing through the eyes of his human vessel Arthas Menethil and his dread Lich Kel'Thuzad.

But even as he trods across the scorched earth of Kalimdor, it's barren deserts baking in the Sun, he can still feel that same cold. He can still feel the frigid fingers of the Lich King upon his head. The necromancer can still see the frost hanging in the air as Arthas, the once proud Paladin breaths, his body now no more than a living casket for the Lich King.

But even as those horrible memories strike fear into his heart, what looms in the distance frightens him even more. Up the road he sees a Horde checkpoint, two massive Orc soldiers questioning travelers while a Troll stand in the watchtower overhead. For even though the mere thought of the Lich King is terrifying, the thought of drawing attention to one's self when the Lich King is desperately searching for you is even more terrifying.

The two grunts had just finished harassing a Tauren female as the necromancer reached the gate, his pack mule laden down with bags and packages. He saw Horde enemies, Centaurs, Murlocks, and enemies of the state mounted upon pikes before the watchtower.

"You there! What business do you have in Horde lands?"

"I am a mere peddler of goods my fine Orcish fellow. Might I interest you in this fashionable necklace? It's made from real Nerubian silk and can be yours for just…"

"Enough! I am not interested in your trinkets Forsaken wretch," the smaller of the two Orcs said waving his hand.

"Sniff, sniff, sniff…Sniff," the necromancer noticed the larger Orc moving around him. He circled the necromancer and his mule once more before returning to his small friend.

"Gluub, I smell…sniff, sniff…Man-flesh."

"Of course you smell Man-flesh Rawlgg, I smell it too," said the small Orc again waving his hand dismissively.

"Argh, the scent is driving me mad! Where is it coming from," the large Orc tightened his grip on his heavy axe in preparation to behead some unseen enemy.

"Look Rawlgg, this merchant is one of the Undead skeletons the Warchief have deemed worthy allies. His flesh may be rotten, but it is Man-flesh none the less."

Now it was the necromancer who tightened his grip, wrapping one hand around his staff and the other around the tether of his mule.

"May I go now most exalted friends?"

"No Gluub, smell for yourself. This Man-flesh is…sniff…_fresh_," the large Orc circled the mule again.

"Sniff, sniff, sniff…yes…yes now I smell it too. You, Forsaken, explain yourself," the small Orc moved towards him, hand on the dagger hanging on his waist.

"Why…uh…its nothing but a little perfume I put on every morning. I could give it to you for a few pieces of copper. It would make a marvelous gift for your woman."

"Gluub…there's something very strange about this mule. It almost smells like a…" the big Orc reached his hand out to feel the mule. But instead of the course hair he expected to find he felt the smooth hair of a horse.

The illusion was broken. It transformed before the Orcs very eyes, going from a decrepit old mule to a beautiful horse. And as the small Orc looked back to the necromancer he saw not the worm eaten flesh of a Forsaken merchant, but the pale skin and jet black hair of a man.

"Human! Human! A human is amongst us!"

The necromancer sprang into action. He hopped atop his steed, deftly swinging his staff, cracking the small Orc in the face and knocking him to the ground. Then by merely muttering a few words the lifeless bodies of the Horde's enemies sprang to life, pulling themselves off the sharp pikes and charging at the two Orcs.

"What's this? The dead return to life? Necromancer! The Scourge have sent a spy into Durotar! Sent a message to Orgim…" the large Orcs words were cut short as a Murlock dug its claws into the green skin of the Orc's back.

The necromancer waved his staff and said another incantation. The wooden gates burst into flame and were soon nothing more than smoldering cinders.

The necromancer rode. He pushed his steed hard, driving it on faster and faster. He had to get away from the guard post, he had to get away from the commotion. Surely the Lich King's spies would hear about this. He would have to figure out where he was going to hide.

But all of the necromancers thoughts were blacked out by pain. He looked down at his chest and saw the spearhead glimmering in the sunlight. He cursed himself for his stupidity. In his haste he had forgotten to take care of the Troll sitting atop the watchtower.

He whispered to his horse to keep going. It could not end like this. Not when he was so close. It couldn't end like this.

He slouched over, grabbing the horses mane to keep from falling off, and slipped into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

In the pain drenched darkness the necromancer dreamed dreams of days long past. The faces of Friends and family. Enemies and rivals. Lovers and madmen. They all danced vividly across his minds eye.

He saw himself hunting with his father, who's face he couldn't quite remember. Then he was baking bread with his mother, who's name escaped him for some reason. Finally he was walking along the edge of the Great Sea, holding hands with a girl he felt sure he was in love with, sand shifting seamlessly beneath his feet.

But then everything changed. His mind was overwhelmed with a stench. The stench of decay and rotting flesh. And then a new memory came to the forefront of his mind. The one memory that the necromancer had sought desperately to leave buried deep in the depths of his mind.

He found himself standing on a cliff overlooking a serene valley, and directly below a beautiful little village. The necromancer gazed around him, but saw no one. He looked down at the little straw rooftops and was confused. All of this felt so strangely familiar to the necromancer, as if he had been hear before.

He crouched down and stared intensely at the valley floor. Something about this place was so hauntingly familiar to him. He listened to the waves pounding the shore on the other side of the mountains, to the birds singing, the wind rustling the treetops. But the most bone chillingly familiar sound was that of the children of the village playing. They chased each other about playing hide and seek, not knowing what horrors lay just out of sight.

The necromancer felt the death knight before he heard him. You see all death knights are...blessed. They are blessed by Ner'Zuhl with an unholy aura. It's original purpose was to calm the horrid ghouls that made up the bulk of the Scourge forces, to make them more amenable to following orders. But upon further study it was discovered that it could increase the strength and metabolism of those around the death knight. making their presence all the more valuable during an invasion.

So when the necromancer felt his pulse begin to pound and his muscles tighten he knew that the death knight was there.

"Look at them necromancer. Soon they will be naught but thralls of the Lich King," the death knight lumbered forward, his armor clanging about.

"We are to slaughter all of them then?"

"Need you even ask little necromancer?"

The necromancer turned and looked upon the monstrous legions of the Scourge. From this point the necromancer could see for miles. Before the coming of the Scourge there had been a beautiful plain that teemed with life that led all the way up to the valley's entrance, there was now only the scorched earth the undead left wherever they went.

And as the endless host of horrors marched on towards the valley the sound of the ocean, and the birds, and the children was replaced. Now everything was drowned out by low guttural howls and the deafening buzz of millions of flies following the monsters, slowing gnawing away at their rotting flesh.

"We should wait until dark to attack," the necromancer said turning back to the bloated death knight.

"Why bother? I'll send some gargoyles to snatch up the ones in that watchtower. After that...well I you know what happens next."

The necromancer nodded. Oh yes...he knew what would happen next.


	3. Chapter 3

The death knight assigned the necromancer a small pack of ghouls to command. The necromancer hated the disgusting little things. They reminded him of marionettes. Nothing but freakish caricatures of men, anything resembling a soul now gone, replaced with one all encompassing thought.

Feed.

As the necromancer moved down the face of the cliff towards the unsuspecting village he heard the ear piercing screech of the gargoyles. He watched as the Lich Kings vicious carrion birds flew overhead, talons glistening in the twilight. The death knight was a fool, they should have waited until dark.

You see, the myth of the gargoyle is very much true. They spend the day in hibernation, hundreds of living statues pulled in a great cart by the massive patchwork abominations. And while they can go out in full sunlight, they aren't as useful as when blackness covers the land. They become almost blind as their eyes are meant to see in the dark. They're rough skin becomes more susceptible to piercing weapons as the sun bakes it and causes it to crack.

But even so, the necromancer watched as they swooped down on the watchtower. An alarm was raised and the men in the tower fired arrows at the flying monstrosities. They managed to bring down one before the rest of the murderous flock was upon them. They scooped the two men up in their claws and the necromancer looked on as the beats fought over them, pulling the limbs this way and that before finally ripping the poor souls into pieces.

As the necromancer walked into the village the ghouls behind him sprang into action, driven to madness by the smell of human flesh. The towns folk had done their best to muster a defense force, but they were little more than farmers with pitchforks, and the claws of the ghouls were sharp enough to cleave iron in two.

As the first men fell the rest of the ghouls fell upon them, biting and slurping and gnashing their teeth. This was why the necromancer hated them so. They were so obsessed with feeding they would stop all they were doing in order to taste flesh. So overpowering was the hunger that the necromancer had seen them sit there feasting while enemy troops came upon them and slaughtered them all, so blissfully unaware that their undead lives were coming to an end.

It infuriated the necromancer even more so because most of the little terrors didn't even have stomachs to hold what they were devouring, so all that they shoveled into their mouths sloshed back on to the ground, nothing but ground meat and red blood.

So the farmers, seeing nothing but a single man in black robes, charged at the necromancer thinking him an easy target. Poor souls.

The necromancer whispered a dark spell and out from his staff shot a twisting bolt of energy and shadow. As it struck one of the farmers in the shoulder it began to eat away at him. The leather armor, the linen shirt underneath, and finally the man's soft pink flesh. Nothing could stop it as it moved closer and closer to his heart, eventually burning that away too.

As the other three men rushed him, the necromancer drew the sword he had hidden beneath his robes. With a few more words the sword blazed with a brilliant green light, burning with a white hot fire. He sliced the first man's legs clean off. As he tried to crawl away one of the ghouls grabbed him and began to eat him alive.

The other two men proved little challenge. The necromancer ran one of them through with his blade, the sizzling flesh drawing more of the Lich Kings undead minions. The necromancer struck the last man with his staff. He began to cough and choke, grabbing his throat as if phantom hands were squeezing the life from him. Boils and open sores began to appear on his face and he collapsed, his flesh corrupted by the necromancer's black magic.

The necromancer then went about his regular duties. The one thing that all necromancers are trained to do. Slaughter anything living and reanimate it to bolster the ranks of the Scourge.

Anyone that crossed paths with the necromancer met the sharp edge of his sword. Men. Women. Children. The old and the sick and the dying. All met the same fate. All would now serve the Lich King of Northrend.

None of this bothered the necromancer. This is what he had done to countless souls, in countless villages, all the way back to when he first joined Kel'Thuzad's Cult of the Damned. But as he was about to strike a woman down he halted. She had screamed something at him. What had it been? Why couldn't he remember? She looked so familiar.

"Alain! Please!"

"L…Laira?"

He…knew her. It was Laira. This was the girl whose hand he had held all that time ago. This was the beautiful girl he had loved so passionately on the edge of the Great Sea. This place…this was his home. This is where he had grown up. He turned and looked to the west end of the village. There was his house set ablaze, his mother and father shuffling out into the square, their freshly reanimated corpse baring the all too familiar claw marks of the ghouls.

"Laira…you have to run. You have to get out of…"

Just then a ghoul pounced on her, ripping her throat and lapping up the blood running on the ground. In his rage the necromancer set the disgusting thing on fire. He took delight in hearing it squeal, swatting at the flames in a futile attempt to put them out.

He looked down at Laira, the ice blue of lifeless eyes contrasting with the smeared red that covered her face. Now all of the necromancer's memories came flooding back. His name was Alain. Alain Sur. This village is where he had lived until being sent off to Dalaran to learn the ways of magic. Laira had been his first lover, and the woman he had promised he would come back to.

Now all of the mental conditioning the Scourge makes necromancers go through was undone. The Scourge makes them go through rigorous tests to desensitize them to violence. To make them willing and able to take life and bestow Ner'Zuhl's…gift on those that fall. To make them enjoy causing pain and death and suffering.

With all of these mental blocks gone the necromancer stared down at his blood soaked robes. He smelled the horrible rotting stench in the air and he vomited. What had he become? How could a man do these things?

He stared at Laira once more. She wouldn't suffer the eternal slavery of undeath. No…she would be free from the torment. He waved his staff and her body blazed with heat. He watched solemnly as her body turned to ash.

From that day on Alain Sur swore that he would do his best to halt the spread of the Lich King's army. He would prevent that soulless thing, sitting high atop the Frozen Throne, from conquering the free peoples of this world.


End file.
